


Risky harbor

by saderaladon



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Cutting, Dumbass Ambush, Furious Cock Touching, If I Only Could I Would Write A Text Consisting Solely Of The Word Fucking, M/M, Possible violence, Rampant Anger Issues, Some Tender Bits Since Ginger, Still Not Getting Paid For That, Unsafe Bloodplay, Unsoundness Of Mind, emotional distress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:54:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25370479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saderaladon/pseuds/saderaladon
Summary: If Tim could think right now, he'd ponder what control means.Like, the fucking etymology.
Relationships: Ginger Fish/Tim Sköld
Kudos: 3





	Risky harbor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LunniLost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunniLost/gifts).



> Hello.
> 
> This is an homage to my spiritual brother and his bloody story I've suddenly composed today more than a year after that text was written.  
> Check it out: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21060164/chapters/50098646
> 
> The idea was to imagine Tim fucking Skold as I prefer to portray him in life circumstances described by my friend and see what those would make him into. So mental bullshit and monologues, yeah. 
> 
> You don't need to read my brother's story first to understand this, but I still would. It rocks, you know.
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> English is not my native language, nothing belongs to me, both the lunatics are fictional, I'm the most pretentious writer ever, it is a fucking homage, okay? 
> 
> Enjoy.

***

Tim used to call this thing a curse back when he still joked about it with guys who always bruised their knees jumping on the stage in their leggings.

Tim also used to think that that period of his bandmates' knees being permanently bruised was the toughest part of his life.

He really used to think he had his shit under control.

If he could think anything right now he'd think he's dumb.

  
Tim's sure it is his room. He's a bit high, but then again who isn't, so he barges in, expecting it to be empty.

It is not.

There is someone sitting by the window. That someone smells of blood. Reeks of it. That someone is fucking made of it.

  
The smell hits him right in the fucking face.

  
He sways, vision going blurry. He doesn't know who that someone is. Doesn't know his own name. He can't think.

  
He sways and freezes, and the blood the room reeks of is pumping in his ears, it goes on and he hears a voice, his own voice that tells him it's that guy who has a squint.

  
The drummer.

  
Ginger.

  
Tim barges into his room and freezes, stopping dead in his tracks, because fucking Ginger is sitting by the window in there. Because fucking Ginger is made of blood.

  
If Tim could think right now, he'd wonder if everything else's not enough. The smashed instruments. The injuries. Drunk fights that happen as if scheduled. The goddamn mic Brian throws at everybody who's in his way. Bruised knees, knuckles, elbows. Fucking nosebleeds. Somebody shouting that they are calling the police, again, as if on schedule. Police. Split lips. Pogo and his fucking giggling acupuncture. _Everything._

If Tim could think right now, he'd think he doesn't need a restraining fucking order.

Another one.

If Tim could think right now, he'd think that if he is to be arrested, he'd prefer it to be because a guy at the afterparty had opinions about males wearing lipstick and simply had to be proven wrong.

He'd think that at least that would be funny.

It was _Manson's_ afterparty, after all.

  
This...

This isn't funny.

  
He can't think.

  
The drumbeat is loud in his ears and the fucker who's creating it is sitting by the window and bleeding in his own fucking room. 

It feels like he is in the middle of an operation theatre.

It feels like there're whole oceans of blood.

  
The fucker - Ginger - moans, cutting himself. Slow. Methodically. Breathing heavily. Fucking meditative. Drawing lines. As if he's painting those bars Tim will get locked behind soon.

Soon.

When he unfreezes.

  
It feels like he is in the middle of an operation theatre, only it is dark in there and if he could think, he wouldn't even be so sure it is his room, he'd wonder if he'd barged into Ginger's own room where he can cut himself and fucking moan all he wants, but he really, really can't.

Also - he can't move.

  
Well, he mustn't.

  
The fucker doesn't know he's there. The fucker moans. The fucker doesn't hear him.

  
What he must do, is get the fuck away from here. 

Right. Right fucking now.

  
Only he's frozen, but he is burning hot, he's swaying, vision blurry, the smell of blood hitting him in the face, his own blood pumping in his ears, fists clenched, his whole body tense.

Only he's about to fucking flop.

  
"Tim," Ginger says.

  
Only he's about to fucking kill him here.

  
"Tim, you..." Ginger starts again, pausing with his surgery. "You don't have to stand in there."

  
_Don't I_ , Tim almost thinks. He would think that, if he could think.

  
"What?" he says and shudders, when he hears his own voice.

  
Ginger shifts a little in his chair, turning his head towards him, glancing at him.

"You can..." he licks his lips. "You can come closer. If. If you want."

  
If Tim could think right now, he'd ponder what _control_ means.

Like, the fucking etymology.

  
Only Tim can't. Tim moves, takes a step forward, one more, one more, the smell filling up his skull, pushing everything out of it apart from raging fever, it feels like oceans of blood are being thrown in his face.

Tim snarls, stopping. Shakes.

  
Ginger shivers too, jumping, and drops the knife.

  
And then, when the fucker has picked it up, when Tim's disloyal feet have brought him even closer both to jail and to Ginger, the fucker gives the knife to him.

Like, actually lifts his hand, _extends_ it, holding the blood covered blade in his semi open palm, and gives it to him. Passes it to him. Like a pack of cigarettes. A lipstick. Tim's pick he's dropped. Just gives it to him. Looking at him with his weird, huge, fucked up eyes. 

As if he's just helping out his new colleague.

  
"Fuck," Tim says. 

  
He squeezes the knife in his fist, and Ginger swallows hard and shifts, as if trying to get up. Tim grabs him by his hair. Yanks him off the chair. Chest to chest. He drops his hand and digs his fingers into Ginger's naked, trembling, sticky thigh.

Ginger cries out, and Tim licks up the blood that's stained his fingers.

He drops his hand again, pulling at Ginger's hair tight, and there are fucking lines of sheet music on the skin he's clawing. 

He manages to throw away the knife. He digs his nails in and snarls.

Ginger cries out again and shakes, palms landing on his arm and chest. Tries to get away.

"Stand still," Tim grits out, scratching, twisting, pulling at the meat of his thigh. Distortion for his fucking fugue.

  
"Tim," Ginger whispers, stutters. Looking at him with his huge, fucked up eyes. "I... Tim, I..."

  
"Where is the fucking knife?" Tim asks, holding him in place, hands almost mauling him. He lifts the blood covered one and licks it. "Fucker." He smears the rest over Ginger's own face. "Where. Is. The fucking knife."

  
If Tim could smell anything apart from Ginger's sweet, sweet fucking blood, he'd also smell his fear.

  
"I uh..." Ginger says. "You..." He gulps. "There. You threw it there. At the... At the wall."

  
The drumbeat of the blood continues, and as it pumps in Tim's ears, he shoves Ginger into that wall. He grips the knife. 

He cuts him.

He cuts him, careless and deep and long, his thigh, just slashes it, and he cries out, the sound vibrating in his throat under Tim's fingers. 

"Hold it," Tim says, shoving the knife in Ginger's wet, sweaty palm. "You dumb motherfucker." He digs his fingers into the cut and licks them, snarling. 

Then again.

There're tears in Ginger's eyes and soon, oh, very soon, they'll be on Tim's hand around his throat as well.

Tim digs his fingers in and licks them. Licks Ginger's sweet, _honeyed_ fucking blood off them.

"The fuck," he says, panting, breath landing on Ginger's wet scared face. "The fuck are you even doing here?"

Ginger sobs out a cry once Tim's hand finds his injured thigh again.

"I uh..." he says and bites his lips. "I'm sorry, I just..."

"The fuck. Are you. Doing. Here?"

Tears fall on Tim's burning skin. Tim licks the fingers.

"I uh... I saw that. That you. How you react. To blood. And I..." his breath catches and he coughs. As if that would make Tim lighten his grip. As if anything would stop him now. "I cut myself. Sometimes. And I... People. Knew people like you. I've... I've fed them blood. Because... Because I like you. And I thought... Fuck. Fuck, Tim. I just... I just wanted to help."

Tim laughs out loud, grabbing at Ginger's hand with the knife.

"Let it go," he says, pulling it out of his palm. "People like me. The fuck do you think you know anybody like me." He makes another cut. The blood starts trickling down. And Ginger whines, as he licks his fingers. Ginger shakes and tries to move. Tries to escape. "Stand. Still." Tim digs his nails into the cuts again, and Ginger howls, grabbing at his arm. "You aren't going anywhere. You aren't leaving here. You wanted to help? Well. You aren't fucking leaving here until I'm done with you." He shoves the knife in his sweaty palm once more and licks the blood off his fingers. "Hold it. Fucking dumbass. Fucking whiny troubled self-harming dumbass. I hate you. I hate you fuckers. You pliant, accepting, _helpful_ bastards. Always out to offer your assistance. _Because I like you_. Fuck you. Just suck my cock if you fucking like me so much. Just fuck me. Just fuck my ass. Sit on my face. Just jerk me off. Just fuck me. Why do you, idiots, always have to bleed for me? Huh? Why can't you just fuck me like normal people? Why do you have to do this to me?"

There're two more cuts on Ginger's thigh by the time Tim pauses, panting, trying to catch his breath, and there is nothing but blood in his mouth. 

Blood and his fingers he keeps licking.

"Why?" he says, shaking Ginger, and Ginger cries out, grabbing at his arms, clinging to him.

"God, Tim, I..."

"Why do you morons always do this? I fucking tell you that I have an issue, that it is not a joke, that you shouldn't poke your stupid noses in there and you still do. And whine. Why do you morons do that if then you start whining? Huh? Are you that fucking horny for being hurt? That broken and fucked up you have to bleed down my damn throat? That stupid? Are you that hard for enigmatic kinky vampires that it makes you so dumb that you think I'm one? Are you fucking hard right now?" 

Tim puts his sticky, shaking, blood covered hand on Ginger's cock and squeezes it.

It isn't hard, but Ginger isn't motionless and isn't silent, he cries out again and squirms, pressed into the wall, his fingers trembling on Tim's arm, and that's enough. More than enough.

"Fuck," Tim says, lets go of Ginger's throat and drops this hand too, he pulls him out, yanking down his underwear, wrapping his palm around him and digging his fingers into the sore skin, into the bleeding cuts, into the fucking honey that'll ruin him. "Like that? That what you like? Sexy bloodplay? Chains and leather and a bit of blood. So goth. Fuck you. Fuck you and your _help._ That what you wanted? Huh? Tell me. That what you fucking jerked off about?"

"N-no, Tim, I uh..." Ginger stutters, wriggling there under his hands. "Tim, I didn't... I just..."

Tim thumbs the head and moves his fist and digs his nails in and smears the blood and Ginger, stupid, stupid motherfucker, Ginger moans.

He moans and howls, tears running down his face.

His cock twitches in Tim's palm.

Tim lifts his hand and spits in it and drops it down again and moves it, digging his nails in, scratching at the cuts.

Ginger cries and howls. Moans.

His cock is hard.

"Fuck," Tim says, releasing him, and pushes him, presses him into the wall. "Horny fucking idiot. Enjoyed yourself? You could've just fucked me. Just offered me a handjob. Just asked one from me. I would've fucking done it. Anything. I would've done anything you fucking asked. But no. No. You had to offer this. Your fucking blood. To cut you. With a knife. Give it to me. Give me the fucking knife. You dumbass. You could've simply fucked me, okay? Jerked off about your cutting bullshit later. Fucking dumbass. Stand still. Stand. Fucking. Still. You aren't leaving here now. You aren't getting fucking away from me. You aren't pushing me away."

Ginger shudders, pressed into the wall, both hands and back, and howls quietly, tears running down his face.

Tim drops on his knees and glances up at him one last time.

"You aren't leaving here until I bleed you dry," he says, and presses the blade to Ginger's sticky, trembling, blood covered thigh. "You aren't leaving me, you fucker."

  
Then there is the fifth cut appearing on Ginger's skin, there is Tim's mouth on it, there is Tim's snarl, there is Ginger's sweet, honeyed blood running down his lips, his chin, his throat, into his skull, into the hungry black hole he is, there is a knife he's holding in his fist, there is another cut, another, there are his teeth and tongue and there are sounds, sounds coming from above and pumping in his ears, there is Ginger calling someone by his name, there is another cut appearing on his skin and then there is just blood, there is nothing else.

There is just blood.

  
Then there is darkness. There is only glowing darkness.

  
Then, in the morning, Tim wakes up, Tim jumps, and at first there is nothing, for a short second there is nothing, and then there is, then Tim's memory kicks in.

He really used to joke about this. About this _interest_ he had in his colleagues' bruised knees and injured fingers.

He really used to call this his little curse.

  
Tim jumps, sitting up on the bed, and someone warm who's been hugging him jumps too, he moves behind him, puts his palm over his shoulder, says his name.

"It's okay," that someone says, and when Tim slowly turns around, looking in his weird, huge, fucked up eyes and at his face and body covered in cuts and blood stains, that someone looks at him and bites his lips, smiling softly, scared, touching him and soothing him. "It's okay, Tim. I'm here."

  
Tim would've thought he's dumb, he can think now, but what does it even mean, surely, it means nothing, when Ginger has slept in the same bed with him, when Ginger hugged him while he slept, when Ginger's still sitting there near him.

When Ginger pulls him closer.

________________________________________________________________________________________


End file.
